


Five Missing Scenes from House M.D

by MissViolet



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-20
Updated: 2010-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:50:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissViolet/pseuds/MissViolet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which I fill in those missing HoYay scenes from five episodes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Missing Scenes from House M.D

_ **Damned If You Do** _

"Thanks for having me over, House," said Wilson, following his friend into his darkened apartment.

"Well, you more or less invited yourself," said House. "But sure, you're welcome,"he said, turning on a lamp in his hallway.

"I take it you had no plans tonight?" asked Wilson.

"Nah, I was going to eat soup, play the piano a bit. Maybe get drunk. Just another night at Chez House," he replied. He sat on the sofa, idly flipping through a copy of the _New England Journal of Medicine_. Wilson spent far too long digging around the kitchen cabinets, looking for a glass. He couldn't help but notice the pantry was filled with cans of Campbell's Tomato Soup and jar after jar of crunchy peanut butter. Finally he found one a dusty-looking _Star Wars_ glass. He rinsed it in hot water and then poured his beer into it, capping it off neatly, and put the empty bottle back into the cardboard six-pack holder.

"Tomato soup and peanut-butter sandwiches? That sounds awful," he said, joining House on the sofa. House shrugged. "Food's food," he said. "Carbohydrates from the bread, a little protein from the peanuts, vitamin C from the tomatoes so I don't get scurvy. It's a fine dinner. But in honor of your heritage, since it's a Christmas tradition of your people, want to order Chinese?"

House phoned it in, placing an order for Kung Pao chicken and lo mein, egg rolls and shrimp toast, and, with a roll of his eyes in Wilson's direction, steamed broccoli with the sauce on the side. He sat at the piano and Wilson lay on the sofa, slipping off his shoes to prop his feet up on the cushion. He flipped on the television; it was the Yule Log; a canned-looking shot of a fireplace with a soundtrack of Christmas carols. He muted the cheesy Christmas carols.

"Can you play something festive?" he asked.

House played quietly, tinkering around with "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas." He played it jazzy and upbeat, and Wilson felt his spirits lifting. He was feeling positive, though he should have been devastated at Julie's betrayal. But it doesn't even register; he was comfortable the sofa, the beer goes down nice, and House's Christmas carols were oddly reassuring. Wilson, who doesn't even celebrate Christmas, was strangely charmed by House's rendition of "Let It Snow"; such contrast to his acerbic personality. House finished the song and the notes trailed off, he just rested his fingers lightly on the keys, silent. Wilson stared at the Yule log, inexplicably happy. The doorbell rang.

"You're not going to make the cripple get it, are you?" asked House.

Wilson heaved himself up off the sofa with a world-weary sigh. He opened the door, paid the delivery man for the food without complaint. House sat on the sofa, waiting eagerly as Wilson spread out their feast, fetched plates and forks from the kitchen, brought them fresh beers and extra napkins.

"I won't be needing that," said House, pushing the plate and fork aside. He ate from the paper cartons, using his chopsticks expertly, recounting amusing stories from clinic duty, from mystery patients who were booted out of Diagnostics because they weren't mysterious enough, to scuttlebutt about Cuddy's wooing of a lecherous philanthropist who was fond of long-haired brunettes. Wilson ate carefully, his plate a tidy balance of steamed broccoli and chicken, a small pile of rice. House was a bit sloppy, polishing off one carton after another, occasionally dropping a noodle here or there, happily crunching his egg roll so the crispy bits flake off and land on the floor. He's making him smile and laugh, and Wilson, to his surprise, realized that he was happy. It's Christmas Day, and his wife has cuckolded him, kicked him out, and he'll be sleeping on a lumpy sofa tonight. But House is joking around, in a good mood, and it's contagious; Wilson is happy.

House pushed aside the empty cartons, stacking them into a big pile in the center of the coffee table. "Your people sure know how to do Christmas dinner," he said, putting his feet up.

"It's not really a holiday for Jews, you know, House," said Wilson.

"Uh, joking? It was just a crack, Wilson, relax," House said, and he poked Wilson in the ribs, hard. Wilson swatted at him. House poked again, provoking him.

"Would you cut it out?" said Wilson, slightly annoyed

"Nah," said House, "it's fun to poke you. You're getting a bit thick around the middle these days, Wilson," and he poked his finger into Wilson's belly, which was unfortunately rather stuffed full of Chinese food, making him feel like the Pillsbury Doughboy. Wilson felt his face flush. So he'd been skipping a few workouts, eating a little too much pizza for dinner. House tried to poke him again but Wilson grabbed his wrists, pinning them to his sides.

"Oh, yeah, well, you're just a....a...cripple! And, you need a shave!" he said feebly.

House laughed. "That the best you got?" he asked. His hands were still pinned, but he was relaxed, he just liked to ruffle Wilson's feathers.

"Guess so," said Wilson sheepishly, but he still had House's wrists. He was silent, and House was looking at him expectantly, but he wasn't moving, and Wilson didn't want to let go.

"Nothing more?" asked House, and suddenly Wilson wasn't even sure what they were talking about. Let go of his arms, he thought to himself, but he was strangely unwilling to do so, instead, he loosened his grip a little, until his hands were just circling House's wrists.

"Can I stay here tonight?" he asked suddenly, hoping House wouldn't mention the wrist thing, because he just could not seem to let go even though he knew that he should.

"Are you coming on to me?" asked House, and Wilson looked at him, horrified, but House was smiling.

"Because you've been holding my wrists for a couple of minutes now. I mean, I know I started it, but—"

"Am I coming on to you?" asked Wilson, unsure of the answer. He had to figure it out himself, before replying.

"Well, if you're just going to repeat everything I say, then you can let go of my arms. We can watch the Yule log, or I'll play you a Christmas carol, or something." House was casual, unconcerned, but Wilson's heart was racing. He had no idea what he was doing, or why he didn't want to stop touching his friend.

"No," he said. "I don't want to let go." House just looked at him, amused. Wilson slid his palms upward, over House's forearms, up to his shoulders, stroking him, enjoying the hard planes of muscles under his skin. He was shocking himself, caressing his best friend, but House was calm. He looked at Wilson steadily, and when Wilson squeezed his biceps, he made a small noise of pleasure that somehow permanently engraved itself on Wilson's brain. He wanted nothing more than to hear that sound again and again, to make House feel good, no, not good, great; he wanted to drive him to ecstasy. He let one hand drop down, touching House's waist cautiously; the other hand rested on his shoulder.

"If you are coming on to me, you're taking an awfully long time to go about it. It's not too effective, if you want to know the truth," said House.

"All right, so what if I am?" said Wilson.

"Then for God's sake, be a man about it!" House was smiling, waiting patiently for what he knew would happen, but Wilson was motionless.

"Fine, I'll just do it then." Wilson licked his lips nervously, and he moved his face closer to House's.

"So do it," said House, teasingly.

"I'm going to," said Wilson, but his heart was pounding in his chest. Somehow they were talking about this, and he hadn't expected it, hadn't prepared for it. In his fantasies, they were both drunk, unaccountable for their actions, and House was all over him, making the first move, making it hotter than this awkward stalled moment with House leaning back on the couch, looking smug, and Wilson twisted around uncomfortably, leaning his face closer to House's but not doing anything.

"Oh, grow a pair, Wilson," said House, and he brought his arm around Wilson's neck, pulled him close, kissed him gently. Wilson gasped in surprise. House kissing him was so much nicer than he'd even imagined. His lips were soft, his face was pleasantly rough, and the kiss was gentle. Wilson opened his mouth, wanting to deepen the kiss, but House was slow, coy. He kissed him expertly, making Wilson tremble with want, his mouth gaping, eager for more. He was so hot, ready for it, that when House bit his lower lip, he cried out, wondering if he was going to come in his pants.

"Happy Chanukah, Jimmy," House said, a little breathless.

"Merry Christmas, Greg," he replied, and arched his back so that his stiffening cock brushed against House's erection, and then there were no more words, only soft sighs and groans of pleasure as they twined around each other, giving and receiving in the true spirit of the season.

_ **Love Hurts** _

"Your tie is a little crooked, let me fix it." Wilson stood in front of House, straightened the tie, but it was hopeless, the short end was far too long, he looked like Lou Costello. Wilson unknotted it and started again, but he found that he couldn't knot a tie on someone else; everything was in reverse.

"Let me stand behind you," he said, moving around to House's back, and bringing his arms around so that he could pretend he was tying it on himself. His arms were draped around House's shoulders, knotting his tie carefully. It was a favor, nothing more, but about standing so close to his friend was nice; it felt good to touch his shoulders, to help him get dressed. And seeing House unsure of himself was an interesting change of pace. He let his arms linger over House's shoulders, wondering how long he could get away with the contact before House made a snarky comment on his closeness. But House said nothing, and finally Wilson turned him around, studied him thoughtfully.

"You look good," he said carefully, measuring his words.

"Yeah? Thanks," said House. "I don't know what she sees in me. I'm twice her age, I'm not great looking, I'm not charming, I'm not even nice."

Wilson wanted to protest, to say that House was charming and good-looking and, well, he wasn't nice, but he was decent in his own cockeyed way. It was true that he limped severely, was sarcastic and misanthropic, but he was also clever and witty and on those rare occasions when he smiled, his electric blue eyes sparkled brilliantly.

"Oh, I don't know. You're not so bad," he said casually.

House turned to look at him, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Ah, you're not so bad looking, and you can be charming in smug sort of way." That didn't come out quite as complimentary as he had meant it.

"Yeah?" House walked away from Wilson, sat on the sofa thoughtfully. "So why is Cameron my only date in the last six years?"

"You're not exactly putting yourself out there, House," said Wilson, exasperated. His friend limped from home to work, high on Vicodin, distracted by soap operas, monster trucks, and video games. He lived on peanut butter sandwiches and canned soup, and was permanently clad in sneakers and jeans. A chick magnet, he was not.

"I don't want to date women," said House. "I don't want to hear their small talk, pretend to care about their feelings, for God's sake." He looked dejected, glancing nervously at the clock, as if he could make time speed up to the point where the whole evening would be over.

"So don't date. No-one's forcing you."

"Yeah, I won't. I mean, I don't."

"But you know, a little human companionship from time-to-time is healthy."

"I have you, don't I?" asked House, but he wasn't his cocksure self.

"Yeah, you have me, House," answered Wilson, sitting on the sofa next to House. It was odd, seeing him uncertain, instead of his usual arrogance. Wilson patted his knee reassuringly, feeling awkward about the gesture, especially because House covered his hand with his own, trapping it against his leg.

"I want to ditch out on her. I'd rather stay here with you," said House, and Wilson wondered if this was some sort of confessional, if the real House was finally being honest with himself. House was slipping his fingers under Wilson's in the most curious fashion, as if he was trying to link their hands together together.   
"Be a gentleman. I'll stay here and wait for you to get back," said Wilson. He hooked his pinky finger around House's and squeezed it reassuringly. It was an intimate gesture, and House looked at him with surprise and he could swear, a bit of relief.

"Remember to pull out her chair before she sits down. Tell her she has pretty eyes. It'll be fine." He wanted to tell House to blow her off, stay with him, they'd have a few beers, order a pizza, watch television. Suddenly, irrationally, he wished the blue shirt and tie were for himself, he wished that House was nervous about meeting him for a date.

"I wish I was having dinner with you instead," House muttered, as if reading his mind, his hand still resting on Wilson's.

"I'll be here when you get back," said Wilson again, and was he reading too much into it? He'd warned Cameron to be careful, but he was still oddly relieved to find that House didn't seem to care at all about her, except in the most offhand way, as his employee, and as skilled immunologist, necessary to his work. The whole date thing was just an obligation to get Cameron back on his team. And Wilson was secretly happy; House preferred him to Cameron, who was young and sexy and practically throwing herself at his feet. But he wondered, was it that kind of preference? The way he touched his hand on the sofa, was it reasonable for him to be still thinking about it? He was struggling to cover himself, to make himself seem like a normal guy, helping House score tonight, instead of what he was: a bit light in the loafers, plotting for the next excuse to touch his best friend. He slipped his hand out from under House's, suddenly embarrassed.

"Comment on her shoes, her earrings, and then move on to D.H.A." he said.

House looked at him, puzzled by his remarks. "Her dreams, hopes and aspirations. Trust me. Panty-peeler. Oh, and if you need condoms, I've got some," he added needlessly.

"Did your wife give them to you?"

"Drug rep. They've got antibiotics built in, somehow."

"I should cancel. I've got a patient in surgery tomorrow," said House, moving towards the kitchen.

"And if you were a surgeon, that would actually matter." House opened the fridge. "That's a good idea, settle your nerves. Get me a beer, too."

"No beer."

"You're gonna eat before dinner?" House reached into the fridge and took out a corsage, delicate and lovely in its clear plastic case. Wilson is surprised, he didn't expect his friend to go the extra mile, but he wondered if House had actually been on a date since his high school prom. Still, it was exactly the kind of gesture Cameron would swoon over.

"This is pretty lame, right?" said House, placing the corsage on the counter.

"I think she likes lame," he said with a smile.

House collected his wallet and keys, his jacket from the hall closet. "I don't think I'll be gone too long," he said. "Maybe we can have a few beers when I get back?"

"I'll be here," said Wilson, clicking on the television set and propping his feet up on the sofa cushions. He didn't mind waiting; they'd sit together, House would loosen his tie and tell Wilson how godawful it was, and how glad he was that it was over, and maybe he'd take his hand again, or Wilson would get to touch his shoulder casually, or something good would happen; Wilson felt a sudden optimism as House limped out of the apartment, closed the door. There was a spark between them, he was certain, it was something physical, and intellectual, and he relished the prospect of discovering its true nature.

_ **Hunting** _

Wilson was irritatingly punctual in the mornings; that was the down side to sleeping with him. It didn't outweigh the up side of the evening prior: caressing his gorgeous body, teasing him, making him lose control, swear and beg for release, moaning and thrashing with wild abandon. It never failed to amaze him that steady, polished Wilson was such a hellcat between the sheets. But annoyingly, he was a morning person. He woke promptly at 7:30 to begin his ritual of self-grooming, followed by a healthy leisurely breakfast, and prompt departure for the hospital.

House was exactly the opposite. He pressed the snooze button endlessly, finally staggering out of bed and getting dressed in about twenty minutes, drinking his coffee in the car, and skipping breakfast altogether. He didn't bother with blow-drying his hair, matching his shirt and tie; since everything matched his jeans. Sometimes he even skipped showering, if he had overslept particularly late. He usually stumbled into the office sometime between 9:30 and 10:00; hungry, slightly cranky, and needing a second cup of coffee. He knew, from his occasional all-nighters, that Wilson arrived chipper and freshly-groomed, his polished wing-tips clicking purposefully on the tiled floors; once he'd actually caught him whistling at 8:58 as he keyed into his office.

House snoozed in bed; he could hear Wilson's blow dryer in the distance. "Rise and shine," Wilson yelled over the noise. He was going to come in and start rousing him as soon as his hair was arranged just so. House groaned and turned over on his stomach, dozed off again. And sure enough, Wilson came in, smelling like shaving lotion and hair product.

"Let's go, lazybones," said Wilson, prodding House.

"It's seven-thirty, I can sleep for another hour."

"Not if you want to ride with me. Get your lazy ass out of bed and I'll make you some breakfast." Wilson wasn't being too nice about it. He shoved House hard, a couple of times, he snatched his blankets and pillows and threw them on the floor. House shivered in the cold morning air. He sat up, looked at Wilson sleepily.

"Oh, go to hell, Wilson," he said grumpily.

"Back at ya, crankypants. Let's go, I'll fix you something tasty." Wilson put his cane in his hand and pushed him in the direction of the bathroom.

The promise of Wilson's pancakes made the walk to his bathroom a little easier. He looked with scorn at the array of personal products on his sink; the after-shave, shea butter balm; mousse for Wilson's carefully-styled hair, and that annoying blow dryer. He liked Wilson best with his hair messy, weekend Wilson in his jeans and flannel shirts. He squeezed some toothpaste on his toothbrush and began to brush his teeth half-heartedly. Wilson was rattling pans and he could smell a pot of coffee brewing.

Instead of getting into the shower; he limped back to the bedroom, collected the pillows and blankets and heaved them back onto the bed. Wilson was preoccupied; he could snooze for another few minutes until breakfast was ready. He crawled back under the blankets and stretched out comfortably, dozed off in that halfway state between sleeping and waking. It might have been five minutes or a half-hour when he was suddenly aware of Wilson standing over him.

"I swear I just dragged you out of bed. Come on, I fixed you some pancakes."

"Why don't you come back to bed? That's more reasonable," said House groggily.

Wilson leaned down, he was going to drag House out again, steal his blankets and pillows, but House grabbed his tie, pulled him in for a kiss.

"Come back to bed, Wilson," he said again.

"Forget it," said Wilson, but his body was yielding. With only some reluctance, he was letting himself be pulled in, and House was urging him down, wiggling underneath him until suddenly Wilson found himself on top, House's hand stroking his hair.

"Just a little kiss," said House urgently, and Wilson obliged him, but it wasn't just a good-morning kiss, House was suddenly on fire. Wilson was so clean and perfectly-pressed, he smelled nice, and his white shirt was impeccable. House had the strange uncontrollable urge to mess him up, to tangle his fingers in the carefully styled hair, to rumple his shirt, tear the buttons, to make him lose control. His tongue teased at Wilson's lips, seeking entry.

"A little kiss, that's all," said Wilson, but he opened his mouth, and when House wrapped his arms around his ass, he didn't object, he let House pull him down so he was straddling him, there was just a thin layer of cotton boxers and Wilson's tasteful gabardine trousers between their naughty bits, and Wilson felt House's erection as he let his weight rest on House's.

"Morning wood, huh?" he said with amusement, and in reply, House rocked his hips upwards, and Wilson couldn't help but bend to kiss him again, he knew he'd be late, that he might even keep his patients waiting, but surely this was a special case, with House so eager and willing beneath him. He opened his mouth, letting House kiss him deeply, urgently, and suddenly he was so hot for it, he couldn't stop his hands from wandering under House's tee shirt, he pulled it off, and House frantically unbuttoned his shirt, practically ripping off his tie, desperate to have their bare bodies touching. Wilson couldn't quell a little moan of satisfaction as he lay on top of him, the heat of his body was so welcome.

Last night they came together in hard ecstasy after a serious makeout session that had left House whimpering, and it was so intense, so exhausting, that he fell asleep only minutes after he'd come all over Wilson's pretty mouth. But it was just a few hours later and he was ready as if he hadn't been tailed for a month of Sundays. Wilson was riding him, rubbing their cocks together, and kissing him with sloppy urgency; he unbuttoned his trousers, slid House's boxers down to his thighs.

"I'm going to be late for work," he gasped, and his hand found House's cock, squeezed it with unrestrained delight.

"Yeah, oh, yeah," sighed House, thrusting his hips upwards, "I'll make you late, Jimmy..._cocktease_," and Wilson stroked him, his eyes alight with pleasure as he made House whimper and buck his hips. Things progressed exactly how House had planned, except he came a little too quickly under Wilson's clever hand, but he retaliated by sucking him off, making Wilson beg for it with loving vulgar words until he finally spilled over in House's mouth with a voluptuous groan.

Later, after they finally did have breakfast, after Wilson called his secretary to deliver a polished lie about "car trouble," he tried to deliver some moral guidance, reprimanded him for stealing Stacy's files, threatened not to drive him to work, but it didn't dampen House's good mood, as they walked out together towards Wilson's car, he thought to himself that morning sex with Wilson, followed by pancakes and coffee, was worth a little stern lecturing.

_ **Safe** _

It started out as a prank; he figured he'd let Wilson wait on his stoop for an hour or two while he thought about his case. He knew that Wilson was out there; he heard the heavy thud of his briefcase being dropped on the porch. Why didn't he go to the coffee shop or a bookstore to kill some time? Why wait on House's cold doorstep? But he was waiting, and House felt a certain juvenile glee at tricking his friend.

House was in no hurry to let Wilson in; he planned to make him wait an hour, at least. He thumbed through _The New Jersey Journal of Cardiology_, thinking of Melinda's inexplicable problems. No, not inexplicable – hardly anything is truly lacking in explanation. Just unknown, not to him, and he felt the simultaneous excitement and anxiety about solving the case; and vexation that he hadn't already done so. He lay back on the couch, the journal resting over his face. Secretly he enjoyed having Wilson around. There was food in his fridge, he didn't have to do the dishes, and Wilson was a decent cook. And of course, the pranks, even though Wilson refused to play along. He was rather predictable in his habits, arriving each evening around 6:30, leaving his briefcase by the front door, stepping out of his loafers, loosening his tie and draping it carefully over the hallway chair. He always did the dishes, bitching at House for not sticking to their every-other-day schedule. And then he'd sit down on the sofa, put his feet up on the coffee table, and just relax for a moment or two, talking about his day. House liked this time the best of all. He likes sitting next to Wilson on the sofa, though he can't quite explain why. He can make him watch _The L Word_, _New Yankee Workshop_, and monster-truck rallies. And it's okay to touch him, when there's a particularly exciting moment in the monster-truck rally, when the girls are kissing each other open-mouthed, even thought they are just actresses, but still, it's hot, or when the idiot with the power tools measures incorrectly; he can put his hand on Wilson's leg and shake it a little to wake up him, because Wilson sometimes dozes off, he's so comfortable on House's sofa.

House tossed aside the medical journal. He was no closer to solving Melinda's case, and feeling restless and frustrated. He planned to shock Wilson with the distinct absence of another person in his apartment...the whole stethoscope ploy was not really to give himself privacy during sex, which was fairly scarce these days, but merely to annoy Wilson, and the masturbatory twist just to shock him, to see his carefully composed expression fall apart in horror and disbelief. But suddenly his prank didn't seem like such a bad idea. He lay back on the couch, slipped a cautious hand inside the waistband of his pants, just trailing his fingers over his waist. Did he want it? He rubbed his cock through his jeans, and felt that pleasant sense of urgency, the desire to tease himself. It would be nice to come on the sofa, to keep Wilson waiting a bit longer, and to add some authentic shock and horror to his reaction when House finally opened the door.

He let his hand trail up to his chest, rubbed his nipples through his tee-shirt until they were taut. House enjoyed a good jackoff session; sometimes he felt it was better than sex. It was less complicated; he could be selfish, there was no pressure and certainly it was less expensive than the escort girls. He peeled off his tee shirt, leaned back on the sofa. He let his hand wander over his body, sliding down the faint trail of hair that led to his groin, rubbed his cock through his jeans until it stiffened. He unzipped his fly, let his cock spring free. House never wore underwear, and he liked to see his cock jump out of his pants like a stripper from a cake. He gripped it tightly, let his head loll back, and stroked himself, just once or twice. There was a small tube of apricot-scented hand lotion on the end table. It was Wilson's; he used it to keep his hands soft. House reached around and grabbed the tube awkwardly, flipping the cap open with one hand. He squeezed a large blob onto his palm, nearly emptying the tube, which he tossed aside. And he slicked his creamy hand over his cock, gasping a little as his palm glided sensually up and down. It was good with the lotion; why didn't he always do it this way? And then he remembered that it was only because of Wilson that he had something so twee as apricot-scented moisturizer; he was not one to buy needless personal products. He grabbed the tube again, squeezing out the last drops just for spite, enjoying using Wilson's fancy lotion to jerk himself.

Sometimes he liked to make it last a long time, moaning sensually as edged himself closer and closer to orgasm, then backed himself off. He could carry on for hours. But he was going to make it hard and fast today. Wilson was waiting patiently on his doorstep while he jerked off. Why did that thought make him so much hotter? He wasn't quite sure, but he couldn't shake the thought of Wilson waiting out of his mind. He'd fantasized about Wilson before, and especially lately, seeing him walking around shirtless, or toweling his hair after a shower, or choosing a tie by holding it up to his unbuttoned shirt. He'd seen Wilson's body, watched him sleep on his sofa clad only in his boxers, blankets and pillows tossed on the floor. House had long since stopped questioning his sexual attraction to Wilson. It was just there, nothing he could do about it; like his fascination with Cuddy's breasts or with lesbians.

He imagined Wilson kneeling over him, going down slow, licking his lips suggestively. His hand moved quickly on his slickened cock. Imaginary Wilson was sucking him off, and he didn't care that it would never, ever happen. He closed his eyes, thinking of Wilson's gorgeous lips stretched over his hard cock, gliding up and down. "Mm, yes," he whispered unashamedly, and he bucked his hips, pumping into imaginary Wilson's hot and willing mouth. He could make it last, stretch it out a little, but he didn't want to, he was greedy for it. "Ah, Jimmy, suck..." he said, and his hand was fast and tight around his aching cock, and he was arching, coming in hard spurts, thrusting his leaking cock into his tightened hand, and in his imagination, Wilson was watching him, was urging him on with naughty, loving words, until finally his climax was over, and with a hard groan, he collapsed back onto the sofa, panting for breath.

He used a box of tissues to mop himself off, zipped up his pants, and put his rumpled tee shirt back on. He had made Wilson wait more than two hours. Time to let him in. He grabbed his cane, limped over to the door and opened it, prodded sleeping Wilson with his cane.

"Where is... the hooker, I assume?" he asked as he entered the apartment.

House tapped his head. "Right up here, buddy." He sat down on the couch, in the very spot where he had just jerked off.

"You said you'd hang the stethoscope if you were having sex!"

"I didn't say it had to be with another person."

Wilson flinched away, looking both exasperated and horrified. His eyes wandered to the sofa, taking in House's rumpled shirt, the sofa cushions in disarray, the pile of wadded-up tissues and the empty container of apricot hand-lotion. He should be disgusted, even angry, but he isn't. He's....thinking about House jerking himself, dwelling on it for longer than necessary. Is it curiosity that makes him blush furiously, unable to meet House's gaze?

"Can you think of anything that would tie together anaphylaxis and heart failure?" House asked blithely, but he's studying Wilson's reaction carefully, and he doesn't miss the blush.

"No. I was waiting out there, for hours!"

"I need a lot of foreplay, and then there's the cuddling afterwards." House carefully gauged Wilson's reaction, certain the look of horror was a sham. Underneath his smooth façade, there was curiosity, embarrassment, titillation? He caught Wilson's eyes darting to the sofa, his lips slightly parted, and the blush on his cheeks so becoming. Their eyes met, and there was something slightly guilty in Wilson's look, he's thought about it, House was certain. He limped past him, brushing too closely, as if by accident, knowing that he smelled like sex and apricots, and that Wilson was rattled by the whole scenario. But Wilson was also curious; House noted this fact, filed it away for later; certain it would come in handy one day under the right circumstances.

_ **All In** _

Wilson unbuttons his bow tie and peels it off, loosens the collar of his shirt. He's hot and uncomfortable in his evening clothes and glad the night is over. He spots House sitting at the piano, tinkling away at "Hymn to Freedom." House stops playing when he sees him, stands up, and together, they walk to the poker table, empty but for a few crumpled napkins and scattered glasses. House puts a stack of bills on the table, smiles at Wilson, and they are seated. It is one of those rare moments where words aren't necessary and they act in perfect harmony. House lights his cigar, shuffles the cards, deals them each a hand.

"So Esther can rest peaceful now, huh?" says Wilson. He peeks at his cards and puts forty bucks in the kitty.

"Yeah." House takes a long puff on his cigar, looking more relaxed that Wilson had seen in a long time. Esther had been eating away at him, and the kid's matching symptoms just about drove him over the edge. But now it's like a giant weight is lifted off his shoulders. House is joking, laughing, trying to distract Wilson with facts about the barnacle's penis, but Wilson wins all his money nonetheless. He's on a hot streak, the money doesn't matter to him, but nailing Burman in the poker tournament, taking House's money, he feels a sense of unexpected glee at all his good fortune.

They play a few hands, and House gets fleeced. It's Wilson's turn to deal, but he won't lay the cards down, because he knows House is broke. "I know you're tapped, so don't even pretend. Come on, I'll drive you home," he says.

"I've got the bike."

"It's raining. Come on," and Wilson is surprised to realize he's telling House what to do, and House is listening to him, collecting his tuxedo coat from the back of the chair, and they are walking down the hall towards Wilson's office.

"Let me just get my umbrella," he says, ducking into his office, and House follows, closing the door with a strangely deliberate motion. Wilson is searching his desk drawer for the umbrella, his back to House, whom he knows is staring, and normally he'd feel that hot self-conscious feeling prickling somewhere in the back of his neck but tonight, he wants House to look at him, wants him to see that he's flush with the bucks and dressed to kill. He finds the umbrella propped in the back of his file drawer, extracts it carefully, and turns around. Predictably, House is staring.

"You wear it well," he says.

"What, the umbrella?" asks Wilson, startled. House moves closer, takes the umbrella from his hand and drops it on the desk. "This," he says, fingering Wilson's tuxedo coat. "It looks good on you."

"Thanks," says Wilson, feeling momentarily awkward, and then suddenly, not. He does look good in his tux; he feels good, strong and lucky. And he sees that he has an in for himself, and why not take a gamble—if not tonight, then when? He moves towards House, who steps towards him, mirrors his movement so precisely; neither wants to take that bold first step, yet they both want to be on the other side of the fence.

"House—" he says, as if there's something more, but there isn't, it's just a stall, to draw out the time and give House a moment to back away before he makes a fool of himself but he's doing it, he's placing a hand on House's shoulder, and House is moving not back and away but towards him, he's taking a step closer.

"I want to....I...." and he's losing his nerve, but then he remembers that he's the Poker Champion, and he's cleaned out House, his pockets are full of jack, he's got silver cufflinks at his wrists. If there was ever a time to do it...

"Do it," whispers House, and he looks at him, holds his gaze, it's a challenge, but House isn't quite taking that bold leap; he's still leaving it up to Wilson, who decides that it's enough to push them over the line; he'll take the gamble. He puts his arms on House's shoulders confidently, and then he's pushing him against his desk, aligning their bodies, and finally he's touching his lips to House's, measuring his response, and House responds tenfold, opening his mouth, spreading his legs so Wilson can move further between them.

"You want me," says Wilson, and it isn't a question. He's pushing up against House, kissing him aggressively, he feels his jacket being pulled off, and House is tossing it over his chair, and then he's sitting on the edge of Wilson's desk, sitting, and all Wilson's pads and staplers and trinkets are pushed aside to make room for House's ass. He's not saying anything but his eyes are saying _come on_, and he opens his legs, and Wilson steps between them, and now they can kiss properly. Wilson slips it to him open-mouthed, he doesn't even try for subtlety. He's not slow and sweet, he's hard, fast, and dirty. The kiss is pure pleasure. House's mouth is gaping and his good leg is wrapped around Wilson's ass and thighs, holding him tight. His hand is gripping Wilson's waist almost painfully. Wilson's breath is fast; he's huffing into House's neck. That slow languorous feeling is catching speed, spreading through the center of his body, the heat and desire, the feeling of wanting and being wanted. He's pulling House's shirt away from his body, tearing at the buttons, sliding his hands underneath the fabric, eager to touch bare skin, and when he does, House's soft longing sigh is delicious.

Things are so right, more than right, it's perfect, House is groaning and rubbing his ass encouragingly, but one hand is sneaking down to Wilson's back pocket, trying to ease out his wallet, and Wilson catches him at it, and now he's got both of House's wrists in a vice grip, pinning his hands to the desk, and he whispers _sore loser_ as he presses his body even closer, aligning all their secret places and making House arch up to him.

"You think you're getting lucky tonight?" asks House teasingly, and he's not trying to hide the fact that he's breathless, he's looking right at Wilson, panting.

"I _am_ lucky," says Wilson, and he covers House's mouth with his own, feeling intoxicated with pleasure and success, and with limitless possibility.


End file.
